I am scared. I think my denial has gone too far but I’ve not been able to stop it or get out of it.
Warning… colorful language ahead. I assume. I haven’t written this yet, but I already know. And this will probably be too long… also, possibly with typos because once I get this out, I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to read it again. I’m sticking in a “read more” so this doesn’t take over my blog feed. Thank you in advance.
I have been unemployed too long. We had some savings so it was okay for a while. Just be Mom for a bit. But it’s not okay anymore. I am running out of money. Not today or tomorrow. It’s not like that. But the numbers are getting scary. And I (we) still have bills to pay.
Why the fuck am I unable to get out of this? What the fuck is wrong with me?
Issues of other sorts aside, my husband can’t help or even say much to make me feel better because the money stuff scares the fuck out of him, too. And it’s my fault. All of it.
Fine, maybe not all of it… he is a bit of a spender and I really wish he would at least try to improve there. But still…
I have been living in a ridiculous dreamworld for months. I’ve been pretending I’m a writer and everything is going to be okay (those two things not necessarily related). But, fuck. No one is paying me for writing or anything else. It’s not a job. It’s a hobby. I’m not a writer. It’s a fantasy. Fuck, even if I had buckets of confidence, I would not make a living as a writer any more than I’m going to be cast as the next fucking Batman (gender notwithstanding).
I don’t know where I thought money was going to come from. Rain down on me from the black cloud above? I don’t know why I let this go on as long as it has. No income… and no hope of ever being able to recover the savings lost. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I have ridiculous fantasies about finding a job I might actually like. I’ve had those fantasies ever since I was laid off from a job I hated. But I thought I’d have my severance, unused vacation pay, some unemployment… I thought by the time that money was gone or maybe not even gone, I’d be working again. But I’ve not been able to try very hard or very often.
What the hell did my fucked-up brain think was going to happen? Someone was going to come to me and just hand me a job with decent pay and a non-hellish environment? Really? Is that what I thought? There would just be this miraculous event? What am I? A 5-year-old? The tooth fairy is not bringing me buckets of money no matter how many teeth I offer. And Santa Claus is not coming to fucking town.
How fucked up am I that I can write all of this… all of these very words… by which you can see that I know what I have to do and what I have to stop doing. I know, god dammit! So why the fuck can’t I do it? Why do I keep thinking something is just going to happen? Dammit. I know nothing will be handed to me (really, when does that ever happen?)… I have to do something. So why am I fucking paralyzed?
Right now, as I type this, I’m hoping my denial will kick back in so I can stop feeling this way. Go back to pretending everything’s going to be okay. But it’s not. It’s not going to be okay. So why am I dying for my denial to come back and take over my brain again?
I will get back some of the denial. I will block out the bad… pretend it doesn’t exist. I will dump my brain inside a poem or a story I’m writing and I will pretend I’m someone else… someone who has their shit together. Someone who can have a happy ending. And I will appear okay on the outside. I’ve become an expert at that.
But I can’t keep doing this. I’m a mother, for fuck’s sake. (Why I ever thought becoming oe was a good idea for me, I’ll never know…) I have to take care of my children. I love them. They know that and they are happy kids. But they are not stupid. I try but I can’t hide my emotions all the time.
Hell, when my (amazing) son said goodnight to me last night, he said, “Mom, you look sad”. My 11-year-old kid should not have to worry about me. It broke my heart. It still hurts.
And my daughter. Let me just say that I am very careful with my diet… I let myself have treats occasionally, but I am good the rest of the time. (No treats at all is not recommended. And I’d probably be a serial killer or something.) I have to watch it because I’ve got Dad’s genes. Step too far out of line and grow… not up.
I am not perfect and I don’t expect anyone else to be, but my poor daughter got those damn genes. She sees her friends who come in all shapes and sizes. And she sees that she’s got hips and a bum that some have and some don’t. She is 8, almost 9, and she already thinks she’s “fat”. It breaks my heart. And I say, “Honey, you’re a growing kid! It’s normal that your jeans from last year don’t fit! Your brother’s don’t either!” And she says that his are only too short… hers are too short and too tight. He’s a boy… (and he’s always been a rail). Someday she will be happy she has curves. But not today.
I did this to them. I made the boy a worrier and I gave the girl crappy genes.
I have wasted all of these months that I’ve been unemployed. Wasted. I think of how things would be today if I lost that job or never made a decision to spend any time as just Mom. Because just Mom became a habit, a way of life, and I can’t imagine any other… no matter how much I need to work (both financially and psychologically).
No matter how much half of my head is screaming “FUCKING DO SOMETHING, BITCH!”… the other half is still saying “go on writing and pretending it’s ever going to matter… go on thinking that somehow, something good will just fall into my life…” But it won’t.
I really am trying. If you know me at all, you know this is huge for me: I finally went to a therapist. He’s a nice guy. He’s not going to just sit there while I talk. He has already made me do ‘homework’. I am still not at all confident any of it will help. I am so fucking negative. After the first appointment, I spent 20 minutes sobbing in my car in the parking lot before I could drive home. All I can think is it won’t work… and there’s really no help for me. This is my life now.
I don’t eat (like, I skip meals… until I am so nauseous from it that I have to force myself to eat something). My sleep is all fucked up. I can get 4 hours of sleep or 12 and have to talk myself out of bed. Oh, I get my ass up early to bring the kids to school. I can do things for them. After morning drop-off, I come home and go back to bed. I just make sure I’m ready to pick the kids up. I get dinner on the table for my family. Sometimes I have a few bites. I can do for them. I am not a bad mother. I love them so much. I wish I could be better.
You don’t have to say anything… I know there’s no quick solution… I know there really is nothing to say… I know I’m way beyond ‘needing a little advice from a friend’. That (and utter desperation) is why I finally caved on the therapist thing. I still think it could very well be a total waste of time (and copays)… but I am trying, God dammit. I look at fucking job listings online. It breaks me but I do it anyway. But I find nothing… and I give up and eventually stop crying. Until next time. I know I’m not doing enough… it’s actually quite pathetic. But I guess it’s something.
This is why I’ve had trouble talking. To anyone. I’ve had trouble keeping up with everyone’s blogs. I’ve had trouble commenting. I will love your post so much but I can’t figure out how to say anything. I’m not being mean. I’m so sorry if I’ve hurt anyone. I just have so much “can’t” right now.
Except in dreamworld.